From the Top
by Tom Beaumont
Summary: An original GI chronological series. In the first episode, Write This Down, George struggles with his growing feelings for Izzie early in their friendship. In the second chapter, The Letter, Izzie finds herself wondering how to respond.
1. Write This Down

_**Tom Sez: ** I shouldn't be doing this, **O Kind Readers**...trying to launch another series when I'm in the middle of another - the next _**Hysteria**_ chapter is in the finishing-touch stage, in case you were wondering - but I'm doing it anyway..._

_And to be honest, the first few chapters of this one were already done...so I have that excuse to fall back on...  
_

_But here goes..._

**George and Izzie: From the Top**

_Number One_

_**Write This Down**_

He had decided to do this some time ago. At least two weeks. He had words to say. And he was going to say them. But he wanted to avoid fumbling and stumbling over himself, choking on the awkwardness of his language skills. So he decided to write a letter. Composed thoughts, clearly stated, and in black and white, so there could be no confusion. That was the way George O'Malley wanted to go.

But it had to be right. All of it.

That's why he could justify spending three days looking for that just-right paper, and another two testing pens to make sure the ink didn't smudge, and then **_a whole_** **_week_ **flipping the words over and over in his brain, all the while considering all the potential responses and reactions - what he wanted, what he didn't want.

And that's when he realized that he hadn't written a damn thing, and his own frustrations made him want to write it less and less.

The funny thing about his frustration, no matter what it was, he realized, was that now he wanted nothing more than to conquer it. Just like being the squashable baby brother, or a 'middler' in med school, or now in the first months of a tough, tough surgical internship - when something pushed against him, he'd dig a little deeper, set his jaw, and push right back. There'd be no difference here.

George sat on his bed, staring at the blank writing tablet that rested on his crossed shins. He clicked and re-clicked his ballpoint pen, settling into a rhythm that kinda-sorta went _tick-tick, tick-a-tick-tick, tick-tick, tick-a-tick-tick._ Once he noticed the pattern, he sighed and dropped the pen. "Good God, O'Malley," he muttered. "It's just a letter."

The words caught in his ear, and he realized the understatement. It wasn't just a letter.

It was a profession. A confession. An admission.

Of love. For Izzie. Blonde, beautiful, sweet, charming Izzie.

Someone who laughed at his goofy jokes, and bought him drinks at Joe's, and made really great chocolate-chip muffins, and commiserated with him after one bad day or another. And also someone who slept in a bed down the hall most nights, but occasionally found his as comfortable, something that would have felt incredibly odd if it didn't also feel incredibly good. Someone he respected, admired, and now, he knew, desired...

George grabbed the pen again and started scratching on the paper.

_Izzie _was what he blacked out first.

_ Dear Izzie_ sounded too - what - formal, maybe?

_ Dearest _was rejected as quickly as the ink soaked into the paper.

George frowned. _Izzie_ had won by process of elimination.

He sighed at his work. Six words over the last three hours, only one of them usable, and he was exhausted. George felt a grimace form. He wished he could simply close his eyes and will his thoughts onto the paper – have them float out of his brain and form on the page in some semi-coherent way. So he decided to take a shot at it; no harm, no foul.

And no luck, he discovered – this time, anyway.

He needed inspiration. Something to help him put the words together.

Cripes, something to put _one _word together.

* * *

He wandered toward the kitchen, where a single light glowed over the table. And there Izzie was: her shining hair pinned up, dressed in a soft blue sweatshirt and shorts, sipping from her coffee mug, and poring over a pair of cardiology texts. Oh, yeah, he remembered – she was scrubbing in on Burke's triple-bypass in the morning.

George tried to act casual as he opened the refrigerator and pretended to peruse. "You're still awake?" he asked.

Izzie looked up at him, her eyes tired. "Not all of us are Burke's favorite intern, you know."

"Favorite?" George replied. "I seriously doubt I rank higher than Cristina."

"Point taken. Favorite male intern, then." She yawned, loud and long.

He bit his lip to hide an adoring smile. "Well, maybe take some advice from Burke's 'guy' - "

"'Burke's guy'?" she asked, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth, and lighting her eyes.

"Yeah," he chuckled, warmth rolling through him. His eyes found hers, and, involuntarily, he felt his expression change to one of tender affection.

"What?" she asked, cocking her head in confusion.

George shifted his stance and his glance, endeavoring to bury his feelings again. "Burke would want you to rest," he said. "He'd tell you to put the books away for the night, and get some sleep."

"Yeah, I suppose he would," Izzie replied. "But I can't. Not yet, anyway."

"Because?" George said, immediately regretting the question, because he knew the answer. He felt his spine stiffen, like he was girding himself for a sharp blow. George wanted to pause the conversation here, just so he could disappear for the next words that were destined to come from her lips. But that wasn't happening.

"Alex said he'd come over tonight," she continued, her eyes finding the books again. "Help me study, or something," she said.

**_Or something._** George usually felt a wave of nausea at the thought of Alex Karev so much as touching Izzie, but those open-ended words made it especially awful. He turned into the open refrigerator to take a few breaths of cool air, and somewhere in the middle of his exhalations, he let out a groan.

"You okay?" he heard her ask.

"Uh, yeah," he replied. "I just noticed we're out of that chicken salad."

"Oh," Izzie said. "I finished it off earlier. Sorry."

"No big deal," George said. "It just sounded kinda good, but I'll live." He closed the refrigerator and started back to his room.

"George?" Izzie called after him. "You're not having anything?"

"Not hungry anymore," he replied.

* * *

_ Alex? Alex Karev? Excuse me for saying this, but are you out of your mind? I know I'm not exactly the dark, mysterious, wounded-animal type, and boy, is he ever_, _and maybe that's what you like, and I'm fine with that, but - and I'm not saying this to be mean or anything - he's not good enough for you. He just isn't. _

George stopped his furious scrawling and re-read it. It felt good to dump the gentility and just say what was on his mind. Unfortunately, he could feel Izzie's hurt reaction coming off the page, too. He was calling her judgment and reason and common sense into question - yeah, that'd be a direct path to the warmth of her heart, buddy-boy, he thought sourly. And besides, this letter wasn't about Karev's broody bad-boy quality. Or his cruel quips about everybody. Or that infuriating smirk which made George want to bounce him off the locker room walls every time he saw it cross the bastard's smug...  
Yikes, George thought. Issues, maybe?

He scratched out all of it and started over.

_Maybe this is the wrong time for me to write this to you. I know you are seeing someone else, and while he's not my favorite person in the world,  
_  
Boy, howdy, George thought_. _

_I am glad he makes you happy. Because I like seeing you happy._

He nodded at the truth of that. Her whole presence glowed when she smiled. It made a cool room warmer, it made a cloudy day brighter, it - why am I not writing this down, he wondered.

_When you are happy - really happy - Izzie, the entire world is a lighter, better, more beautiful place, all because of you._

He thought for a second.

_ I know my entire world is, anyway._

George was surprised when he blew out a breath and felt the butterflies stirring, urging him on_._

_When we first met at that mixer, I thought you were remarkable - and now I know it. I wish I had your courage, your intelligence, your skill. But most of all, Izzie, I wish I had your heart. The way you care for others is extraordinary, and puts the rest of us to shame. It's what will make you an astonishing doctor. I don't remember what my life was like before you were in it, and I don't want to. You are my best friend, my favorite person, my other half. I treasure you. I adore you_.

_ I love you.  
_  
George blinked at the last words, suddenly feeling a twinge of fear. He'd found the courage to finally put down on paper what he'd longed to say for the last few weeks, and now regret was rolling through him. Did he really want to do this: gift-wrap his affection and hand it to her, damn the consequences?

He'd thought so. He was sure. Right up until he said the magic words.

George's ears caught the sound of laughter. Izzie's mixed with Alex's, in that particular blend that only could be made by two people who shared more than just a friendship. And he felt his stomach wrench and knot. No matter how he felt about Alex, he was here for Izzie, and he made her happy. At best, George thought, this letter would be nothing but an annoyance for Izzie, and at worst, would end up photocopied and plastered on every open space in Seattle Grace by her boyfriend. It wasn't worth it.

George shook his head, then snatched the pages from the tablet, crumpled them into a loose ball, and tossed them in the general direction of the trash can. As the laughter rose and fell, he snapped off his lights, dug into his pillow, and pulled the blankets over his head. He heard muffled conversation for a few moments, before the dark curtain of sleep enveloped him.

* * *

Izzie went to wake George the next morning, but he was already long gone. She found herself genuinely disappointed to have missed him. Alex had wanted more 'something' than to help her study, and after forty minutes of trying to keep both of their minds on work, he'd walked out, all injured that she wouldn't pay more attention to him than to the surgery she'd fought to be in on.

She'd gone to George's room to vent right afterward - even noting the other man's muttering about her "running off to O'Malley again" as he stalked to the front door - but he was sound asleep, and she didn't want to wake him with such problems - especially if Alex was involved. Izzie had hoped George would be starting to stir in those great blankets of his when she came by, so she could see his round, friendly face still adorably hazy with sleep, but no such luck.

Izzie sighed and started to leave when she noticed a ball of paper on the floor. It made her smile. He missed the trash can, like usual. She bent over and picked it up, and noticed the texture of the paper, the quality of the ink. And she saw her name, over and under the jagged creases and folds.

Curiosity flickered in her, so she unrolled the crumpled mass, and started to read.

**The End**


	2. The Letter

**George and Izzie: From the Top**

_Number Two_

**_The Letter_**

**  
**  
Izzie had spent the whole day feeling like everything around her was cloaked in a thick haze that was smearing her concentration. Sure, she'd been able to get to work safely and on time, and performed her surgical duties with her usual competence - maybe even a little better, frankly - but the focus she displayed inside the walls of Seattle Grace had waved goodbye. She couldn't manage to hold a conversation for more than three sentences, none of her charts made any sense to her, and ordering a tomato soup-and-grilled cheese sandwich combo in the cafeteria – something she ended up taking two entire bites of, anyway - somehow took ten minutes. And why?

"Hey, Iz," she heard George say, his voice less steady than usual.

Izzie's eyes shot up to meet his, an unexplainable excitement bubbling inside her. His letter was the only thing she could see clearly in her mind today – and it was burning bright. She had so many questions, so many things to say, so much she wanted to hear from him – but then she noticed that he was flanked by Meredith and Cristina, and the bubbles went away: _poppity-pop-pop_.

"You okay?" Meredith asked.

_Pop._ "Yeah," Izzie said, trying to shake off the concern. She noticed that George sat as far away from her as possible while still being at the same table. Izzie tried convince herself that it didn't hurt a little.

"Surgery go okay?" Meredith continued as the others found seats.

"Yes," Cristina said darkly. "Thief."

"Hey," George barked involuntarily, catching a withering glance from Cristina, and his eyes fell to his tray. Izzie felt a warm tingle in her stomach, and tried to offer him a small smile.

It seemed to her that he noticed her affection, but he didn't acknowledge. Instead, his attentions stayed on spooning chicken noodle soup into his mouth. In between bites, he pushed ahead, saying, "Just because she got picked over you doesn't mean she stole anything."

"It was a joke," Cristina grimaced and took a gulp from her ice tea. She gestured toward him with her head and gave a wink at the other women. "Bambi's so bloody sensitive about Barbie here. You'd think he was in love."

The words rang in Izzie's ears – almost as loudly as the clang and clatter of George's spoon hitting the floor, and his ragged, wet coughing as he choked on a swallow of soup. He clutched desperately at a napkin, and held it over his mouth as he turned away from the others, hacking and gasping for air. Izzie was on her feet to aid him, but because he was so far away, it was Meredith who was on the spot.

"George!" the duo cried in unison. Heads spun, and eyes blazed at Cristina.

"What? It's not my fault he was trying to inhale his lunch!" she fired back.

Izzie made her way around the table and knelt next to him as he continued to rattle and wheeze. "Are you okay?" she asked, laying a hand on his shoulder.

"No," he gasped, standing up. His already red cheeks seemed to grow redder as his eyes, trying to avoid Izzie's, were registering the sight of all the strange faces around the cafeteria that were staring in his direction. "I have to change," he said between reflexive coughs. "If anybody needs me..." he started to say, but the words trailed off. He shook his head sadly, and quick-marched out of the room.

"I knew he was a choker," Cristina sniffed as he left, "but I never thought - "

Izzie appeared nose-to-nose with her fellow intern, and said through clenched teeth, "Not. Another. Word." She had a moment to glare at a chastened Cristina before her pager pulled her away. She could hear the other women start to talk about her being 'overly sensitive' as she left, and was tempted to turn back, but decided to let their catty chat go. For now.

* * *

Izzie double-checked the room number with the number on the page. Yeah, it matched, but the room was empty and dark. She was beginning to wonder if someone was playing a joke on her when she heard Alex's quiet, sad voice behind her. "Hi, Iz," he said.

She turned around, feeling her jaw muscles harden. "'Bye, Alex," she sneered, trying to walk past him.

He grabbed her hand, stopping her cold. "I feel like crap about what I did last night," he said. "I was out of line, and I'm sorry."

Izzie sighed as she studied his slumped posture. "You should be," she said. "I needed you to help me study, not fool around."

"Okay. But you weren't fighting me that hard, you know," Alex said, a flicker of mischief crossing his face.

She had to chuckle. He was right. "No, I guess I wasn't," she said. "But last night, I needed you to keep me on task. That Burke asked me to be in on that bypass - it was a big deal to me."

"I know," Alex replied apologetically, putting a hand on her shoulder. "It's just that – I get around you, I kinda...lose my focus, you know," he said, clearing a few strands of hair from her face. "So how'd the surgery go? Burke didn't give you too much crap?"

Izzie smiled proudly. "None at all. I think he was even a little impressed about what I knew, and that he didn't have to hold my hand through it," she replied. Then she added, her voice warm and playful, "I did get a lot more studying done without you there."

Alex turned chilly. "Figures," he said. "O'Malley probably jumped at the chance to play hero."

Izzie frowned at the sourness of his tone. "No," she said, "He was asleep."

Alex snorted. "Why am I not surprised that you know that?" he grimaced.

Izzie shook her head. "What's your problem?"

"O'Malley," he said, like the mere mention of the name nauseated him. "How long did it take you to find out that he was asleep? A minute? Minute-and-a-half?"

"What is it with you and him?" she asked, feeling a nugget of anger forming in her throat. "He's not a threat to you."

Alex shoved his hands into his pockets. "Damn right he isn't," he glowered.

"Wow," Izzie replied, suddenly seeing George's crossed-out comments about the other man unspooling before her eyes. "I think I'd better leave now. I don't do well with braying jackasses." She pushed past him and started down the hall.

"Yeah, you prefer sad little boys," Alex said after her.

"No, Alex," she replied, not breaking stride, "If that were true, I wouldn't be leaving you behind."

* * *

She couldn't find George anywhere for the rest of the day – and she'd been thorough in her search. Around four, she finally found out that he'd been invited to scrub in with Shepherd on a brain aneurysm, and that was the kind of delicate procedure that meant she'd be going home before he would. She went to the scrub room outside the OR, hoping that she'd be able to catch his attention, or maybe snag him when he was sent on a errand, but no such luck. She did see him, briefly, while the neurosurgeon was walking George through some of the basics of the procedure, but even from a distance, she could see that he was engrossed in the process, and nowhere near able to respond to a smile and a wave.

Izzie felt a deep disappointment radiating through her as she sat alone in the interns' locker room at the end of the day. She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out the paper that she had stuffed in there so early in the morning. The words glowed in her vision.

_I treasure you. I adore you._

_ I love you._

The last phrase was the most affecting to her, maybe because it didn't feel like the kind of 'I love you' shared by a friend, no matter how close. No, this came from a deeper, hungrier place. It was a declaration, like he had stood up in the middle of a madding crowd, and shouted it at the top of his lungs, without an ounce of fear. It was brave, it was bold – a genuinely swoon-worthy thing.

But that was the problem. She didn't know how to feel about it. She was deeply flattered, sure, but she was also deeply stunned. He'd never shown that kind of interest in her, never even hinted at it - at least not that she remembered. And she hadn't led him on, she was positive. She hadn't shown that kind of interest in him, not even a little.

Right?

Yeah, they'd sat and talked for hours a bunch of times – but best friends do that sort of stuff. And while their talks tended to turn intimate, they were most definitely not romantic conversations. They were occasionally about romance – a girl George wanted to ask out, a guy Izzie had a crush on – but the girl was never her, the guy was never him.

Never.

Right?

The sleeping in the same bed thing? Innocent. Completely, totally innocent. He had a comfortable mattress, great blankets – and he was just such a soothing presence. He didn't kick, or talk in his sleep, or have cold feet, and if you put your arms around him, he wouldn't fight you off. The man just felt good. Plus he smelled quite nice from sundown to sun-up, even after being spooned for six to eight solid hours, and that was, to Izzie's mind, a rather remarkable thing in of itself. But did he ever – **EVER** – do anything inappropriate? Or did she?

Nope. Not once. And that was the proof. He'd never shown this kind of passion toward her, and she had never wanted more from him than his companionship.

Right?

As Izzie searched her memory, trying to find hints in George's past behavior – and her own - that would show her what she'd missed, her awareness of the locker room dropped away. And the next thing she knew, she heard his voice echoing off the lockers, sad and soft and distant: "Where did you get that?"

Izzie looked up at him, noticing his pale, panicked cheeks, but couldn't find the right thing to say. How could she reply: _I found it in your room this morning and it's been distracting me all day? _

"I asked you a question, Iz," George whispered.

She felt the effect of his emotion. "I – I just – "

George's eyes shimmered as the blood came back to his face. "Did you and Alex have a big laugh over it?" he asked. "Do I need to prepare for a barrage of copies Scotch-taped to everything I come in contact with? 'Cause if not, it's the least I can do to help you and him humiliate me some more for this hospital's amusement."

Izzie's heart was rattled. "You know I wouldn't do that to you," she whispered.

"Yeah, sure," he hissed, finding his locker and flinging the door open. "Did you like the part about how I admire your compassion? Your heart? I was just winging it, you know. Had to find just the right words." He started grabbing his clothes.

"I'm sorry," she said, not knowing what else to say.

He turned back to her, his arms full. "I want it back," he said.  
"What?" she asked.

"I didn't give it to you," he snapped. "You went into my room after I was gone, and you found it, and you read it, and you - you - " George's words disappeared in a fog of frustration and disappointment, some aimed at her, but not all, and she could tell. "I want it back, dammit," he said, with a finality that chilled the air.  
Izzie took a breath as he stood in front of her, his hand out. "Why?" she asked.

He swallowed. "Why what?"

"Why do you want it back?"

George's mouth fell open, and it took a moment before words followed. "Why? Because, Izzie - " He gaped some more at her before finally slumping at his locker. "Because you weren't supposed to - you weren't going to find out." He paused for a second. "Well, you were going to find out. I got it in my head that I just had to do this, had to write out how I felt about you. Had to give it to you, was going to - that was the original plan. Then I - " He sighed. "And then I realized that I was wrong." He looked up again, with a wistful smile. "I don't love you. Not at all." He said it clearly, succinctly, and without a trace of regret.

It took Izzie no more than a millisecond to know he was lying - but even the most gullible person on Earth would have bought his denial. She decided to let it go, though; Izzie was exhausted by the struggle. She gave him a little smile. "Well, I not only do not love you, I flat-out loathe you," she said, meeting his eyes. "How 'bout them apples?"

George's face lightened. "I despise you and everything you stand for," he said. "Top that."

"Despise?" Izzie grinned. "Hmm. I abhor you to the core of your very being." She held out the letter to him, and he took it.  
He also held her hand in his for the longest time. She felt the warmth and gentleness of his touch, the streaming affection in it. It made her stomach quiver - but not in a bad way. Not at all.

Suddenly, she noticed him standing, and his other hand touched her cheek. "See you at home, Iz?" he asked.

"Yeah," she replied.

And then he was gone, like a puff of smoke. Izzie sat on the bench for a little while, breathing and looking at the place where he stood. When she was ready, she exerted the energy she needed to stand, and as she pushed up, noticed the whispered crush of a ball of paper under her hand. Izzie didn't even have to steal a glance to verfiy that it was his letter, just jammed it into her pocket, and as she walked out of the locker room, felt bubbles filling her all over again - only lighter and brighter now.

**The End**


End file.
